The Dance
by Andi Horton
Summary: Just something to distract me for a while. Sydney misses Danny, and ends up discussing it over pizza with our favourite handler . . .


The Dance

O0O0O0O

_And I am glad I didn't know_

_the way it all would end; the way it all would go._

_Our lives are better left to chance. I could have missed the pain,_

_But I'd have had to miss the dance_

O0O0O0O

I don't think of him very often anymore.

I used to think of him constantly- not a day would pass that I didn't dredge up some mundane little memory, made all the more precious by its very insignificance. Like the way he pronounced certain words, with that accent of his; the way his hair would fall into his eyes when he was concentrating especially hard on something. I would think of how he hated egg rolls, and every time we ate Chinese and they brought one to us, he'd roll his eyes, and make all sorts of faces until I was laughing, and ready to duck under the table from embarrassment.

There was his ridiculous obsession with socks, too . . . that man had more socks in his bureau than Macy's does in their entire underwear department. I'd think of how great people always said we looked together- both of us dark haired and eye-locked. How wonderful I felt when I was with him. How wonderful it was to _be_ with him.

Now that inundation of thoughts has slowed to a mere trickle, with maybe one or two a month, but the effect is still much the same. Sometimes it's even worse- sometimes, when I realize that I haven't thought of him in weeks, I feel slightly guilty. It feels as if he's been pushed back too quickly, as if he didn't matter that much to me, after all. It makes me doubt my love for him. But then I look through scrapbooks and old albums, and I am comforted. Nothing in my posture or face indicated anything but total adoration of him, with was only reciprocated.

Then, of course, I get depressed, and start to cry, and Francie finds me, and we eat too much junk with too many calories, and watch too many bad movies to distract me. My nose gets red and ugly, she pats my shoulder and hugs me, and I do feel better. It works for a while, but then I find myself wondering again, and heading back to the albums . . .

One morning when Francie was not home I had been looking through the albums and got to work late, with my mascara smudged from the tears I had shed over the treasured pictures. Dixon took one look at me, and hustled me off to the bathroom to get cleaned up.

"You were looking at the pictures again, weren't you, Syd?" he sighs, reaching for paper towels and wetting them thoroughly.

"Uh-huh," I sniffle, wiping at a few years. "Dixon," I added, "this is the ladies' room, you know."

"Yes, Sydney, I know," he sighs, daubing at my cheeks with the cloth, cooling them and cleaning away the blue-black smudges. "But some things are more important right now. You have got to stop obsessing over this."

"Obsessing?" he can tell by my tone that it was a mistake to choose that particular verb. "Dixon, if Diane had been shot in her bathtub, you'd obsess, too! This is just killing me! Every time I think I'm over him, I feel guilty, and then I realize I'm not over him, after all. You would feel the same way if it had been Diane- and I would never criticize you for that!"

"I would never _tell_ her something I wasn't _supposed_ to!" he returns, and I step back, stricken.

Did he just say what I think he did? He did, didn't he?! How _dare_ he?! The next second he looks so sorry that I can almost forgive him. Almost.

"Dixon-" I gasp, feeling tears of disbelief welling up, "Dixon . . ."

"Syd, I'm sorry. That was callous, cruel, and uncalled for."

"Yes," I say, my whisper trembling with the weight of the tears behind it, "it was." Then, abruptly, I mutter "I have to go" and do. I run out of the bathroom, heading directly for my desk, where I bury myself behind an old operations manual I find in the bottom drawer. I do manage to hold the tears back, but I'm weak from the effort by the time we all meet in the conference room, and I still can't look Dixon in the eye.

In fact, I can't do anything at all- I don't even know what's going on around me.

Sloane, I am sure, is giving me directions of some sort, and I seem to be making the appropriate responses, but all I can hear are Dixon's words of a few minutes previously: _"I would never tell her something I wasn't _supposed_ to!"_

Why not just say, "They didn't kill him, Sydney, you did" and have done with it? Because the result would have been the same, and- oh, look, the meeting is over. I am nodding, standing, and heading out the door so I can get away as fast as I can, but Dad grabs my arm, and holds me back until everybody has left.

"Dad," I mumble, "this is probably the worst time-"

"No, Sydney," he says quickly, "I- Dixon told me what he said. To you. About- Danny. And- well, Sydney, he's sorry. Very sorry."

I am silent, for a second, then I speak, my voice deliberately low so I won't cry.

"He shouldn't have said it."

"No," Dad agrees, "he shouldn't. But- he did. And he can't take it back. He knows you loved Danny- knows better than I did, actually. I never really bothered to- but then, that's beside the point. He's very sorry, Sydney, and he hopes- he hopes you can forgive him."

"Why can't he tell me that himself?" I ask, still not entirely willing to relent.

"Would you have listened to him had he tried to do so?"

"No," I admit.

"Mmm," Dad nods, and releases my arm, but I can see in his face that there is still something he wants to say.

"Dad? What is it?"

"Well- I don't think I ever really did express to you, Sydney, how very sorry I was that he- died." He looks so awkward, but so sincere, that my heart goes out to him, and I put my hand on his shoulder.

"Thank-you."

He nods, ducks his head, and hurries out of the room, leaving me to slowly walk over to Dixon's desk. He looks up when he sees me coming, and I can't really blame him for looking so apprehensive.

"Syd, I-" he begins, but I hold up my hand, cutting him off.

"Don't. Don't speak. I- Dad spoke to me. He told me how sorry you were. And all I can say is, you should be. I loved Danny. I loved him, and he's gone. He is never coming back to me. Yes, I did go against orders. Yes, I did betray this- this agency. But that does not mean I loved him any less. I am furious with you for making me doubt, even for a second, that it was not somebody other than I who killed him, and I will probably remain mad at you for a good, long time. But I do forgive you, and I accept your apology. I just- I can't get over it that quickly, you understand?"

He nods.

"Good."

I start to leave, but he stops me. "May I say something?"

"Haven't you said enough?" I ask bitterly, and he has the grace to look guilty.

"More than," he agrees. "But- I am sorry Sydney. If it had been Diane, and we had just been starting out on a new life together- then yes, maybe I could have done the same thing. And if she'd met the same end as Danny- I would not have been able to show half the strength, the courage, and the dedication that you have. You do amaze me, Sydney, and I just want to say, to your face, how truly sorry I am- both for what I said, and for what happened."

I stand there, my face working, but words surprisingly hard to come by. Finally, I manage a nod.

"Thank-you."

I have to go, now. Where, I am not sure. Just somewhere. Nowhere, even, as long as it's anywhere but here. And I have to go now, before I run into Sloane's office and choke the life out of him where he sits. So I pause only to grab my purse, then run, not looking back.

I drive around aimlessly for a while, not knowing where I'm going, and not really caring. Finally I manage to end up home, where the phone is ringing. I lift it, then replace it in the cradle, hoping that whoever was on the other end will get the message. Then I kick my shoes into a corner, shrug out of my blazer, undo the top few buttons on my blouse, and fall back onto the couch to cry.

I soak the cushion thoroughly with my tears, ignoring the phone as it starts ringing again, crying long after it finally stops.

Why? I wonder. Why can't I just let him go? I loved him, and still do, but missing him like this isn't going to bring him back. Although, if I thought there was even a chance . . .

I sit up, push my hair back, and bite my lip to keep from losing what little liquid there is left in my body. I had to tell him, didn't I? I just had to go and tell him all about it- no, I just had to go and get involved with him in the first place. If I hadn't gotten involved with Danny, he never would have died. And I wouldn't be sitting here, struggling to keep from crying yet again. And ignoring the doorbell.

The doorbell?

Locating the box of Kleenex Francie keeps under the couch ("It looks so _gross_ out there in the open. It's like, here's something for your snot. I mean, eew!") I wipe my eyes, blow my nose, and head to the door. When I open it, it takes me a minute to even register what I'm seeing, and even when it registers, I can't believe it.

And it's not just because I didn't order any pizza, either . . .

"Joey's Pizza delivery," Vaughn says, maintaining the straightest face I've ever seen on anybody.

"You're kidding me," I shake my head.

"Miss Sydney Bristow?" he checks the tag stuck to the pizza box.

"Yes, I- Vaughn, what is this?"

"Your pizza, Miss." He hands it to me, and when he removes his hands, I see I am also holding a twenty.

"That'll be nineteen fifty-eight, please," he says, and I hand him the money, still dazed.

"K- keep the change."

"Thank-you, Miss Bristow, and have a nice day."

Then he jogs back to the beat-up white Volkswagen sitting at the curb, looking impossibly good in that awful red cap and jacket- and yes, they actually have 'Joey's Pizza' written on them. Shaking my head, wondering what that was all about, I walk back inside, and open the box. There is a perfectly mouthwatering pepperoni double cheese with mushrooms inside, along with a grease-stained envelope. Putting the pizza on the counter, I open the envelope, and take out the folded piece of paper inside.

_Dear Sydney_, I read.

A letter. He wrote me a letter.

Intrigued, I read on.

__

Your father called me right after you left work- he said he was worried for you. That Dixon had said something about Danny that upset you.

Your father also thought that you hadn't heard a word Sloane said about the mission, so he told me about it, but when we called you to arrange a counter-mission, you didn't answer. I got worried, so I wrote this. We have to meet at the warehouse so I can give you the counter-mission, and if you want, Sydney, we can just talk. About Danny, and if you're doing all right and all. But only if you want to.

Anyway, enjoy your pizza. It's what I always order, and it's really good- I hope you like it.

Vaughn

He was worried about me. And- he wants to talk. Or rather, listen.

It's so appealing a prospect to me that I don't even bother refreshing my makeup before I grab my blazer, locate my neglected shoes, and hurry out the door to the car.

I take the pizza with me.

O0O0O0O

When I get to the warehouse, I bring the pizza inside, and find Vaughn in his customary spot.

"Hey," I say, feeling suddenly awkward.

"Hey," he smiles. "Want to know what your mission is?"

"And my counter-mission," I smile. "But- for now, can we just sit? I mean, it's been a really putrid day and it isn't even noon yet. If we could just sit, and maybe- well, you said that you liked this, right?" I hold out the pizza, and he looks surprised, but only for a second.

"Yeah," he smiles, "I guess I did."

"Well- would you share it with me? Because Francie hates mushrooms."

His smile widens. "Sure, I'd be glad to."

So that is how we end up sitting on the table, the pizza box between us, trying to keep cheese strings to a minimum and failing miserably. I'm into my third piece when he glances up at me, and speaks.

"So- do you want to talk about what happened at work?"

I finish off a piece of pepperoni, and consider the question.

"Yeah, I guess. It- I'm almost over it already, now, actually. It's like that- I miss him so badly for a while that I start to cry, and usually Francie is there to smarten me up, or at least help me wallow until I'm past it. But this morning she just wasn't available, you know? And Dixon- he would never intentionally say something to hurt me. I know it. He's one of my greatest friends. He just wasn't thinking, and I was a mess, so it went downhill from there."

"Have you considered going for counseling?"

"Oh, yeah," I snort, almost choking on a mouthful of mozzarella, "like any shrink isn't going to have me committed when I tell him my life story."

"No, I mean- well, we have one here at the CIA."

"Oh, yeah- whatserface. Barnett. Dad was just _raving_ about her."

"I'll bet," he chuckles, looking down for a second, as if remembering something. "But seriously, Syd-" he sobers, "you need an outlet."

I look directly at him when I answer. "I have one."

He flushes, and looks down quickly. "No, Sydney, I'm not an outlet, I- I'm your handler."

"You're my friend," I insist, and he looks at me, almost- is he _worried_?

"Really?"

"Yes." I answer firmly.

"Then, can I ask you something? As a friend?"

"Sure."

"What is it, mostly, that makes you so upset? Do you still miss him, or do you feel guilty, or what? What, if you could name one thing, is it that upsets you the most about Danny's death? I am not," he reassures me quickly, "implying in any way that you're wrong to be upset. I just- I want to help you get to the bottom of this."

"You don't sound like a friend," I chide, "you sound like a shrink."

"Just call me Dr. Vaughn," he smiles, and I have to smile, too.

"Fine." I consider the question for quite some time before I answer him. "I think," I say slowly, "that it's the wastefulness."

"I'm sorry?"

"Wastefulness," I repeat, liking the sound of the word. "That's what bothers me the most. That maybe it was a waste to get involved with him. He was such a good man, Vaughn. You never met him, you never knew . . . he was a good man, with a good heart, and he wanted to make a difference in the world. So I feel like I wasted one incredible person by dragging him into _my_ world- something I had no right to do to him. To anyone. And maybe- maybe that's why I thought Noah and I could have a chance as a couple again- because if his life was forfeited, my conscience would be clean. He had made a choice, and if he died because of it, his blood would be nowhere near my hands. Danny's-" I almost choke, but force myself to go on. "Danny's blood was enough. More than enough. I never want to feel that sort of guilt again- knowing that it would have been better to just stay away, and being so selfish that I got involved anyway."

I look down at my hands, then, and there is silence. Utter, dead, heavy silence. An overabundance of silence- why can't he say something? Finally I can't bear it anymore, and peek up, to find that he is watching me with the most incredibly tender expression on his face that I have ever seen.

"Sydney," he says gently, "that's bull."

"I- I'm sorry?"

"Bull. Junk. Trash. Lies. Something I don't ever want to hear coming out of your mouth again. That- _wastefulness_? Sydney, a man would be privileged beyond his wildest dreams to spend even one day with you- making you happy. Danny was going to spend his _life_ doing that- if SD-6 hadn't killed him, I'm sure the sheer joy would have before long."

"Vaughn-"

"No, let me finish. You are- you're amazing, You're a dedicated, courageous young woman; you have a good heart," he smiles awkwardly, "and you want to make a difference in the world. And one day, you are going to realise what so many men already have, and you will realise that Danny's life was far from wasted. It was richly, preciously spent. Can you really imagine not having spent the time together that you did? Danny- well, any man would be lucky if he could fill his position. I promise you, whatever you did with Danny, you did not waste his time. What would you do if he were to say he'd been wasting yours?"

My cheeks flush.

"I'd say he was crazy," I murmur, and Vaughn nods, satisfied.

"So would he, if he could hear you now."

"You're sure?" I ask, not quite daring to believe it.

"I am," he says firmly. "I'm positive. Now- be honest with me, all right, Sydney?"

I nod.

"Would you honestly rather that you not have known him?"

I think of Danny.

Those eyes.

That voice.

His hands.

His smile.

The way he always said I was the best thing that had ever happened to him, not knowing that my boss would be the last.

And I honestly cannot find that I have any regrets.

"No," I admit, "I wouldn't."

"Fine," Vaughn says, satisfied. "Now, you take your tears, and you turn them into- well, whatever it is that's helping motivate you to take down SD-6, and you'll be a lot better off. Because you won't be such a soggy mess every few days, and you won't be having to get your SD-6 mission from your CIA handler. Sound good?"

I manage a watery smile, and nod. "Sounds good."

His face softens. "Good. Now, you take the rest of this pizza home, and you get some rest."

"But what about my mission?" I ask, and he shakes his head.

"The mission can wait, Sydney. I promise."

"Okay. And- thank you, Vaughn. For everything."

He nods, gives me a little smile, and then watches as I gather the pizza, turn, and walk away.

As I walk, I think of Danny- of everything about him that made him special.

Made me love him.

So many things . . .

And I find that I'm glad, when it began between us, that I didn't know how it was going to end. Because even though I wouldn't have missed the pain of my far-from-mended heart, I would definitely have missed the dance.

O0O0O0O

Well? You like? Just a short little thing I thought of- my radio's only picking up the country station, and Garth Brooks was just singing The Dance, so I thought- well, you know. I was bored, and needed a break from Five Years, etc. (but don't worry, I'm still working on it. I just needed to switch topics for a while).

Alias? ABC Touchstone's. Created by JJ Abrams, Bad Robot Production. Yada yada yada . . .

Reviews are far from necessary, but always appreciated!


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